


Those You've Known

by LessonsFromMoths



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Hale Fire, Asylum, Cora is a good sister, Crazy Stiles, Dead Hales, Dead Kate Argent, Eichen House, Eichen | Echo House, FBI Agent Derek Hale, FBI Agent Peter Hale, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, No Sex, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Please stay safe folks, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, So is Stiles's sons, Stiles Stilinski Sees Ghosts, Stiles Stilinski is a Mess, Suicide (mentioned), Traumatic Experience, Undercover, as usual, insane, just be careful, not any worse than Teen Wolf show, stiles has a son, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-05-09 15:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LessonsFromMoths/pseuds/LessonsFromMoths
Summary: Derek is an FBI agent undercover at Eichen House, an asylum for the criminally insane. He's investigating some odd suicides and a staff death and needs some inside information. This Stiles character seems to know quite a bit, but he seems a little too unhinged for Derek's taste...“I don’t believe I ever told you my name, Derek,” he stuck his hand out. “Stiles Stilinski, former student at Berkeley. Pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”Derek squinted. “I never told you my name.”“You didn’t have to,” Stiles said nonchalantly. “The voices tell me all I need to know.” Derek wasn’t sure if the guy was just messing with him or not. “Tell you what. You tell me what’s wrong with you and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. Wanna trade secrets?” He looked eager, as if he already knew Derek’s secret and was greedy to have his suspicions confirmed.Derek mulled it over for a second. “Aggression, arsonist tendencies, and depression.” Derek said, standing and crossing his arms.Stiles whistled. “Whoo Derek Hale, you have some real issues.”*sorry if you've been getting updates, I'm currently fixing the errors with help!





	1. The World Grows Dark Around You

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist:  
> (These are the songs I listened to most frequently while writing. Some have nothing to do with the story, some have everything to do with it. I encourage you to listen, though).  
> There's something dark, Dustin Kensrue  
> dancing on my own, calum Scott  
> I started a joke, the beejees  
> Murder Song, Aurora  
> Ghosts, Banners  
> Under My Skin, SPC ECO  
> Winter Wind, Run River North  
> Can I Exist, Missio  
> Start of Time, Gabrielle Aplin  
> Creep, Radiohead  
> Violet Hill, Coldplay  
> Pure Imagination, Gene Wilder  
> Hushabye Mountain, Dick Van Dyke  
> I Found, Amber Run  
> Those You’ve Known, Spring Awakening
> 
> This is still a WIP, I'm hoping that posting some of this story will keep me honest and writing, especially since I'm so close to being done!!...update: finished! Enjoy! (Please note the suicide trigger warning!)   
> HUGE thanks to Bumpkin for picking out my errors!! Any current errors are completely and utterly mine!

"Do you understand your assignment, Agent Hale?" Derek's head snapped up from his clasped hands, and he turned his darkened eyes to the deputy director, who also happened to be his uncle. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Good. You should kiss your family goodbye as soon as possible. We're sending you to Eichen House first thing tomorrow morning. They rarely get new admits, and when they do they always get them before 5am. The shuttle will pick you up at 4." 

"Yes, sir." Derek said again like the good agent he was. 

The deputy director stood. "Good luck to you, Agent Hale. We hope you can find what we need." 

"And I as well, sir." Derek shook his uncle’s hand. 

 

.....

 

Derek had no family to kiss goodbye (his uncle never cared for any outward expressions of love and Cora was out of the country on a business trip), and so at 4am the next morning he had with him nothing but a simple black coat over a white shirt, jeans, and his hiking boots. He had been told prior to being assigned that everything he had with him would be confiscated and returned after he came back from the mission. The white transport truck showed up outside his house, and he wrapped his jacket tighter around himself. There wasn't much of a chill in California—it was nothing compared to Virginia—but the situation brought along its own kind of freeze. There was a man driving and the side sliding door opened to reveal two FBI-affiliated transporters, a man and a woman. They both beckoned him inside and he stepped into the white truck as they shut the doors around him. The truck jolted into motion, and Derek roughly fell onto the cold metal seats lining the truck.

"Here, we have to put these on you," the woman moved forward, her expression apologetic as she clipped handcuffs onto him. "Now remember, all of your things will be taken from you. You were given a backstory in your case file, is that correct?" 

Derek swallowed, jingling his cuffs a bit. "Yeah." His silence filled the whole truck, but he did nothing to dissipate it. He rather enjoyed the sound of nothing, it was worth more than any words. Besides, it gave him time to focus. Derek had been on many undercover missions before: that's what happened to you if you were a Quantico agent with no family. He'd been on ones that embedded him deep into underground boxing circles, ones that found him the bodyguard of a drug lord, ones that ended with him fake married with a fake child. This time, though...this time was different. This time he wasn't Marcos Salvéz the pet shop owner, he wasn't Ian Lewis the club bouncer, he wasn't Orin Adler the bookshop employee—he wasn't even Ben Franks the coffin salesman. 

This time, he was Derek Hale, the insane criminal murderer. Horrifyingly not too far off. 

Eichen House was based in Beacon Hills, and it was exclusively for convicted murderers. Some serial, others first-timers, but all had taken another human's life. To get into Eichen House, a person already in prison had to be referred by the prison psychologist. They had to reside in their home prison for at least six months before they were able to be transferred to Eichen House. Simply put, all of the convicted murderers in Eichen were clinically insane one way or another. 

And now he was undercover as himself (oxymoron. ha.) in order to link a serial murderer to the frequent suicides happening in Eichen. It was all very top secret business, nothing Derek wanted to think about, nonetheless discuss with anyone until absolutely necessary. 

The truck slowed to a final stop and Derek stared at his scuffed shoes as the guards led him from the truck and into the darkened back entrance of the building. It was huge and brick, and even though it look gloomy from the outside, the inside had a lot of windows. It was probably very well lit during the day. Derek was taken into a separate room and pat down for weapons before being stripped by techs. They bundled his clothes into clear plastic bags and handed him a dark blue jumpsuit. By some holy miracle, it wasn't orange. They let him keep his shoes (after a lot of inspection and weighing) and gave him no privacy while he slowly changed. He straightened up once he was done and his two new guards roughly grabbed his arms. 

"We've got another buff one, Jimmy," the first guard said, squeezing his fingers around Derek's bicep. 

"We'll keep our eye on you, bud," the other one smiled, but it was wrong, twisted. Derek held back a shudder. He'd stared into the eyes of a dead man before, but nothing compared to the emptiness of these men's eyes. 

They led him through different hallways, too confusing for the untrained man to follow, but Derek knew exactly where they were: he had memorized the blueprints of Eichen months ago. They had taken him to an east wing, which was for slightly higher surveillance prisoners, but not even close to the worst. "You'll be staying alone until we can determine your temperament. Wakeup call is at 7am." Derek could tell they were trying to piss him off with their body language and rough touches, but he refused to give them the satisfaction.

As they led him into the room that was apparently supposed to be his, the first guard pulled him close and put his lips next to Derek's ear. "How many did you kill, huh? One? Four? Seven? The average for a prisoner of your size is about five, pretty boy." 

Derek shrugged the man from him. If only the guard knew. 

"Not gonna talk, huh?" The guard spit idly on the concrete floor. "You will. They can never resist bragging for long." 

The two guards left him in the room with a bang of the door, and Derek assessed his new home. A single woven rug on the floor, concrete on the floor and surrounding him on the walls, minuscule window where the walls met the ceiling, single bed in the corner. Side table, simple lamp. Upon further inspection, there was a King James bible in the drawer of the bedside table. Derek didn't mess with the covers on the bed, instead choosing to spread himself out as much as he could on the small bed, punching the lumpy pillow a few times before settling back and running through his plan over and over in the back of his mind until it became imprinted on the inside of his skull.

.....

 

The morning brought guards banging on his door, yelling, "Time to wake up! Breakfast in five!" to the entire block. Derek flipped himself upright and sprung out of the bed, then walked over and out of the electronically unlocked door. For safety purposes, no one stationed at Eichen knew he was undercover except for the two transport guards that brought him there. They were easily reachable through laundry messages, ones that Derek hoped he would be able to send soon.

He followed the small crowd of prisoners from his hallway into a larger, more open area. It had metal lunch tables spread around it and a lunch line in the back. Derek took his place in line, behind a slew of loud prisoners and in front of a rather large black man. There were no girls in this area of Eichen: when it came to eating, they kept the sexes separate. However, male and female prisoners were allowed to interact during outdoor hours. After he went through the line and received his watery eggs, boiled pork, and raw green beans, he scanned the room for an empty table and found one near the middle, completely abandoned. He took his seat, kept his head down, and drank from the cardboard milk carton that held barely enough milk for two gulps. He shoveled food into his mouth quickly and quietly: prison was no place for taking your time with your meal. 

Derek knew that all prisoners were required to stay in the cafeteria for thirty minutes before getting in line to receive their medication, so after he finished everything (except the beans) he sat silently glaring at the light gray tray, hating the color. Couldn't they have at least made them something pleasant? Something like yellow, or orange, or even blue...

"I'd prefer purple lunch trays, I think." A voice from behind him said, and Derek whirled around quickly. Had he voiced his thoughts out loud? Someone set their tray down next to his and the person was about to sit down before he changed his mind and slid to the opposite seat of Derek's. "Or pink, ya'know? I feel like pink could boost morale." Derek looked across the table to see a pale-skinned...boy(?) scarfing down his food like his life depended on it. Which, looking at how skinny the guy actually was, it probably did. Derek flicked his eyes back down to his food and didn't dare acknowledge the boy. 

"This whole place is drab. Such a downer, really. Most people here are either too crazy or too conked out to notice, but it's enough to depress you. Believe me," the boy kind of fell forward on the table, propping his head up with his hand. Derek looked up, slightly startled. "I've been here for a long while." He sat up, straightening his back. "That's how I know that you're new. We don't get new people very often, it's quite hard to convince a prison psychologist to get us transferred here." He paused, then smiled strangely at Derek. "I should know, I happened to do it." He stopped again, and the smile slowly disappeared. "Then again, they say I'm clinically insane. I know what's wrong with me, Mr. Man, but the question really is...what's wrong with you?" 

The boy grabbed the raw green beans off of Derek's plate in one handful and abruptly stood up. "I'll figure you out yet, sir, you should bet on it." Derek looked up to catch the boy's wink. "I always do." He sauntered off, shoving the beans into his pockets, and Derek watched him walk away with uncharted interest. In every undercover operation, you needed someone who knew too much. You needed someone who had been in the environment awhile. You needed someone who was willing to talk. Maybe this could be his man, but he was odd. 

Then again, Derek supposed that everyone here was odd. The kid was definitely nosy, and that could either help or hurt Derek. 

He watched as some of the patients began to be rounded up for the med lines, and he followed a few to dump his tray. He then went with the crowd and shuffled to a long line of inmates. There were four lines in all, all with about 15 people in them. 60 patients. 

Derek spotted the lunch tray kid in the line next to his near the front, legs jittering, hands fluttering, eyes flicking this way and that. He smiled at the woman giving him his cupful of drugs (there were at _least_ 10 pills in there) and as he chatted she laughed at whatever he was saying. It was curious, though, because it wasn't a fake, just-take-your-meds-and-leave laugh...she was genuinely laughing at what he had to say. 

Derek went back to staring at his hands until he made it to the front of the line. He flashed a grimace at the young bearded man giving him his cup of pills: 4 to be exact, all prescribed by an FBI-affiliated doctor. One was an iron supplement, another was Derek’s usual depression pill (even if someone asked, he would never tell), and two were sugar placebo pills. He downed them, drank the water for a little something else, and then opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out to prove his reliability. 

The male helper nodded at him and Derek left his line. As he walked back to his room (they were going to be called for group therapies within the next hour), he glanced around the room for the over-excited boy, but found nothing. His hands found the corner of his insane scrubs, and he fiddled with it incessantly. The FBI psychologists told him that most crazy people _(“It’s mentally insane, Derek, not crazy”)_ had little tweaks that made them do the same action over and over, like having mental problems caused each and every crazy person to acquire OCD-like traits. As if being crazy _(“How many times do we have to tell you, Agent Hale? Don't call them crazy. They take offense to that.”)_ wasn't bad enough. 

Once he was back in his room, Derek took a moment to thumb through the bible in his nightstand. The first few pages were fine, but the deeper he went, the messier it got. Previous owners had taken the liberty of writing about themselves in dark markers over the word of God. Derek wasn't a religious man, but even he knew that you weren't supposed to defecate a bible. 

Each page was filled with information. Names, quotes, movie and song titles. Differing handwriting peppered the pages. One person had written, _“I miss warm pasta,”_ another wrote, _“I miss my wife.”_ As Derek neared the book of John, he noticed that someone’s handwriting in particular had grown frantic. In black marker, written over and over, was the declaration, _ **“I did not kill them.”**_ The pained handwriting continued for tens and tens of pages, bleeding through many pages and ruining the words of the religious ancestors of Christianity and Catholicism. _**“I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them.”**_

The repeated statement swam before Derek’s eyes, and he flipped through the pages hurriedly to find the end. He finally came upon it, and a few blank pages of relief appeared until the writing started up again, this time stating _ **“I am innocent. I am innocent. I AM INNOCENT I AM INNOCENT I AM INNOCENT.”**_

A knock came at the door and Derek slammed the bible shut hurriedly. He had a feeling that the hospital would confiscate his bible if they knew it was desecrated. 

A guard that Derek vaguely remembered from the lunchroom entered and eyed the bible. “Many men find God here,” was all he offered, then jerked his head so Derek would follow. Derek placed his bible back in the drawer and trailed his guard. He was led to a room past where they ate lunch, and once they entered the room Derek could tell he was going to hate small group therapy. 

There were nine chairs arranged in a circle in the middle of the room. Almost everyone was sitting in a chair, and Derek nodded to the guard before taking his seat. He saw lunch kid pass by the doorway fleetingly. A second passed and the boy peeked his head in the doorway, searched the room for point one second before his eyes landed on Derek, and he smiled. Derek furrowed his brows at the boy, and he flashed Derek his fingers in an aborted wave before disappearing again. 

Derek was watching after the boy, wondering where he always disappeared to, when a man in a headache-inducing brightly-colored shirt walked into the room, clapping his hands loudly and smiling wide. 

“Hello there everyone! My name is Jordan, and I'm the guy that will be leading these small groups! I see a few new faces, so I'll run through some things. We meet five times a week, Monday through Friday, but I'm available 24/7 if you guys need me. I'll be like your counselor for the entirety of your necessary group activities throughout each of your paroles. Please feel free to contact me whenever you feel you need to. Any emergency, I'm there.” He looked around at everyone, and then, satisfied, smiled brightly at them all. 

“Now, during our group therapy sessions we cover a lot of things, but the main goal is to remind you all that you're not alone and also to let y'all share whatever you need to get off of your chest. It's very important to do this, and it will definitely help you get better.” He smiled widely again. “Who would like to share first?”

Derek groaned.

 

.....

 

The lunch tray boy found him again during yard time. Derek was trying to get a small run in when the kid almost threw himself in front of Derek, tripping them both and making them fall in a heap on the slightly crispy grass. “Heavy,” the boy wheezed as Derek struggled to get off of him.

Derek glared. “What the hell was that for?” 

The boy shrugged. “I don't have to answer. I’m insane, remember?” He grinned. “I don’t believe I ever told you my name, Derek,” he stuck his hand out. “Stiles Stilinski, former student at Berkeley. Pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

Derek squinted. “I never told you my name.” He cautiously watched the boy as he stood and brushed his big hands on his dark blue patient jumpsuit. 

“You didn’t have to,” Stiles said nonchalantly. “The voices tell me all I need to know.” Derek wasn’t sure if the guy was just messing with him or not, because he had a twinkle in his eyes and sarcasm dancing in his tone. “Tell you what. You tell me what’s wrong with you and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. Wanna trade secrets?” He looked eager, as if he already knew Derek’s secret and was greedy to have his suspicions confirmed. 

Derek mulled it over for a second. He needed a person on the inside; someone who could trust him. He needed secrets, and he needed an informant. Except this time, the informant couldn’t know what was happening. If anyone found out he was a fed, his entire cover could be blown and the operation would have been for nothing. In about ten seconds he made up his mind. “Aggression, arsonist tendencies, and depression.” Derek said, standing and crossing his arms. 

Stiles whistled. “Whoo Derek Hale, you have some real issues.”

“Do I know you?” Derek asked shortly, getting close to the boy. That was the second time he knew part of Derek’s name without asking for it. His last name wasn’t said even once while he was in the institution. How could Stiles have that information?

“Nope! But to keep up my end of the bargain, I’ll tell you what they think is wrong with me.” Derek braced himself while Stiles leaned in further, like he was telling a secret. “Extreme schizophrenia, psychosis, and bipolar disorder.” Stiles’s eyes positively _danced_ as he looked up at Derek. “All good things come in threes, don’t you think?” 

Derek really didn’t know what to think. He knew everyone here would be pretty messed up, but here was a seemingly nice kid, he honestly couldn’t have been older than 19, who had violent and life-altering mental disorders that caused him to...what? Kill a person? Rob a bank? Sell drugs? He didn’t really know what psychosis consisted of exactly, but he knew that people with schizophrenia saw and heard things that weren’t there but were incredibly real to the victim. He also knew that bipolar disorder could cause someone to hear voices in their head, along with causing violent and whiplash-like emotional changes.This kid could potentially be insanely dangerous, along with just plain insane.

Derek turned to look back at Stiles and saw that he was kneeling down to pick a purple weed. “Desert sage,” he said softly. “This was my mother’s favorite flower.” He looked up. “I also believe another one of its fond admirers was your mother, Derek Hale.”

“I…” Derek said, and when he looked at the flower he realized he recognized it as one of the many wildflowers his mother used to forbid him and his sisters from mowing over whenever they did their chores. “How did you know that?” He choked out.

Stiles smiled sadly, touching the tiny purple flowers softly with his fingertips. “They need incredibly dry dirt to survive. Good irrigation. We never watered our lawn.” 

_“How did you know that about my mother?”_ Derek asked again, crowding Stiles for a second time.

“Some of us aren’t actually crazy, Derek Hale.” The boy’s amber eyes bore holes through Derek’s as he stood again, a single dime-sized flower resting crumpled in his palm. 

Derek backed away slightly, thinking he made a mistake associating himself with the strange mental patient. “What are you in here for? What did you do?” He was slightly scared as he asked, ready to bolt.

“Haven’t you ever heard that we’re all innocent here?” Stiles asked teasingly, but his eyes looked almost dead now. “What do you want to hear? That I held a gun to someone’s head? That I robbed a small convenience store? That I delusionally claimed that I was a member of ISIS?” He laughed bitterly. “Well I’ll tell you, Derek Hale. I’ll let you in on my secret.” He spit the word as if he had been privy to Derek’s private thoughts. 

“I caused the death of my best friend. You glad that you know? You feel _safer?_ Do you feel better than me because even though you kill people, your kills are _justified?”_ Stiles advanced step by step, hands balled into fists at his side. Derek backed away. “You think because you were given a badge with your gun that every kill you make is worth it? That your conscience is clear? Let me tell _you,_ Derek Hale, that you have plenty of ghosts. You are no better than me, the man who ruined his own life by not being there for his best friend. Your badge means nothing. Your family follows you in your dreams because they walk behind you every day as your shadow, and they will never leave. You will always be haunted by your past because you yourself know that you are not good enough. I know you, _Derek Hale._ I know your soul. You may be decent inside, but the ghosts of your past and the bodies in your mind will always hold you captive. No matter how many good deeds you do, you can never save yourself from your failures. They will always be there, haunting you for as long as you live. How’s that for your fake depression?”

Derek watched, absolutely dumbfounded and gobsmacked as the boy he just met a few hours ago walked off, letting the crumpled flower in his hand flutter to ground at Derek’s feet.


	2. Those You've Pained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a WIP! :)

Derek didn’t get phone time until late the next day, and he was firmly informed that he only had it for ten minutes. He only had three numbers memorized by heart: his old family landline, Laura’s phone, and Peter’s. He dialed the only one still in service. It rang twice before he heard the click of someone picking up.

“Hello?”

“Tell me everything you can about a Stiles Stilinski.” 

“Hello to you as well nephew. Is the looney house treating you well?”

“Cut it, Peter, I only have 8 minutes.”

“Feisty.” Derek could hear his uncle typing something on his keyboard. “Stiles Stilinski. Real name Mieczyslaw Stilinski. Age 26. Father is Noah Stilinski, the Sheriff of our very own and dear Beacon Hills, mother Claudia Stilinski is deceased. Mieczyslaw has one son, Noah Hark Stilinski. The mother is a Malia Tate, former patient at Eichen House. Stilinski’s arrest record began at age 17 when he stole the siren off of a police vehicle and was let off with a warning, and ends with the alleged and confessed murder of his childhood best friend, Scott McCall, who is survived by his mother. Jesus Christ, Derek. There's so many hyperlinks on this page I can hardly keep up. What else do you need to know?”

“The murder. Fill me in.”

“According to police reports, Stilinski and McCall were at an abandoned motel together. There was gasoline poured all over the crime scene and a lit flare with both Stilinski and McCall’s prints was found near the body in the gasoline. McCall was completely fried and Stilinski was found clutching his friend and sobbing after he called 911. When the cops came he confessed to causing the murder of Scott McCall, but didn't elaborate. His lawyer had him plead insanity and he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and psychosis. He was sent to Eichen. He was only 19.”

Derek made a mental timeline. “When the hell did he have the kid?”

“While in Eichen. They conceived there and she gave birth after she was released. The kid is being raised by the Sheriff. Derek, why do you need to know this stuff?”

Derek swallowed and looked around. “He knows things, Peter. He knows that our family died. He knows Mom’s favorite wildflower. He knew my name. He’s really weird.”

“Well, he _is_ insane,” Peter said, obviously not as worried as Derek.

“That’s what he keeps saying,” Derek grumbled.

“Look, do I need to pull you out? Can you finish the job?” 

“Of course I can. Thanks, Peter.” He hung up before Peter could say anything else.

He sighed, rubbing his face. Stiles Stilinski. Once the Sheriff’s kid, now a convicted murderer. Oh, and the fact that Stilinski’s murder had to do with fire, just like with Derek’s family….well. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

 

.....

 

“Derek, would you like to share?” Derek startled and looked up to see Jordan watching him. He quickly shook his head and went back to fiddling with his jumpsuit. “Come on, Derek,” Jordan crooned. “The only way to heal is to share. No one is here to judge you, and when we all share we make it further in the healing process.”

Derek fumbled with his fingers for a moment before clearing his throat. “I, uh, I’m Derek and um…” he kind of choked. This wasn’t AA, but he wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to say. To be honest, he hadn’t listened to previous meetings. “When I was sixteen, I uh, I watched my family burn to death. My girlfriend at the time liked to set fires, and I was dragged into her drug-induced lifestyle. I loved it until I didn’t. After she...I got sad. And mad. And I didn’t understand my place. I did some things. I regret some of them. But there’s some I’d do all over again.” He stopped abruptly. 

Jordan looked at him expectantly for a moment, as if waiting for him to share more, but Derek sat silently in his uncomfortable folding chair. “Great job, Derek. We’re all proud of you for sharing. Thank you.” On cue, the rest of the assembled group clapped. Derek hung his head for the rest of the meeting. 

 

.....

 

Derek was in the dining hall when he heard someone humming behind him. The song was vaguely familiar, like something from an old dream, and he turned around in the line to see who was making the noise. Unsurprisingly, he was met with the whiskey-colored eyes of none other than Stiles. 

“Sorry,” he flashed Derek a smile, as if the incident from a few days ago hadn't happened. “It's currently my son’s favorite song. Every time he sees me he makes me sing it ‘just like the man, daddy!’ And every night on the phone I have to sing a verse.” He shrugged. “Can't get it out of my head.” Stiles sat down next to Derek this time instead of across from him, digging into Derek’s untouched fries. 

“What song is it?” Derek couldn't resist from asking. It was too familiar. 

“Hushabye Mountain from that old musical Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I had it on VHS from when I was a kid and my dad pulled it out for him a few weeks ago. He hasn't stopped watching it since.” Stiles shook his head and chomped down on another rock-hard fry. “He's so much like I was. My father is a saint.” 

Derek leaned back a little and let out a sigh. “That's it. My sisters and I used to watch it. We saw a stage version when I was six and begged our mother to buy the tape.” He looked over and saw that Stiles had an odd smile on his face. “What?” 

Stiles shrugged. “Nothing. Just enjoying the fries. You sure you don't want yours?”

Derek looked down at his plate and saw that it was completely void of fries. “No, I'm good.” 

Stiles continued chewing on his rock fries, studying Derek’s face. “You’re different, Derek Hale. Not quite aware of the world around you, but definitely different.” He leaned close over the table, eyes fixated on a spot behind Derek. “Want to know what they say about you?” He didn’t wait for a response. “They say you’re lonely. They say you haven’t talked, really talked, to anyone since it happened. They say you love with all of your heart. They say you blame yourself. They’re sad that you blame yourself, Derek Hale. Don’t make them sadder than they have to be.”

Derek blinked hard. “Who are you talking about? Who is _they?”_

Stiles smiled and leaned back, sipping his milk. “You know, Derek.” He swept his eyes over Derek’s face. “You’re like a fucking magnet. Almost more than I am. I think it’s your sadness. They’re usually pretty sad, too, and it brings them to you.” The man finished his milk. “But then again, you also do dumb shit like carry around a haunted bible. Do you know how many people have died holding that thing?” Stiles stood and circled the table. “Hey, do me a favor, huh? My son is visiting tomorrow, and I’d like to be lucid. Usually I don’t want to, since this place is so populated, but he deserves his real dad.” Stiles stooped down and set five pills that were an array of blue, red, and green on the corner of Derek’s tray. “They don’t watch you closely, and it’s because you haven’t got any infractions. Toss ‘em for me?” The man winked and went to dump his tray. 

Derek stared down at the pills, which he quickly covered with a napkin. How Stiles managed to get away with not taking them was beyond him, but he definitely wasn’t going to get caught with pills that weren’t his: Stiles was right when he said that Derek wasn’t watched closely, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Derek trailed Stiles with his eyes as the man left the cafeteria, not even looking back. Derek reached into his back pocket and pulled out the bible. He flipped past the _I did not kill_ them handwriting and found more writing, this time in a dark purple marker:

_**He made me do it and now I’m next he asked me to kill them and now I’m next I didn’t kill them and now I’m next he made me take them I dont want to I didnt want to I did and he hurt me and now he’s going to kill me and this is real this is real this is real I’m going to die for real I miss my wife I miss her I want to go home I want to live I never did before but now he’s going it kill me like he did all the others and I don’t want to die but he always got away with it and now he’s going to again oh god I know they’re coming for me soon** _

It ended abruptly. Derek flipped through the rest of the bible, but it was missing purple marker. The rest of the defecated pages were just nonsense words and babbling. Kill? Murder? Was this the heart of the conspiracy right here? Who was _him?_ And how did he have the power to force others to do his bidding? Derek supposed that if the guy was using mental patients to do his bidding it wouldn’t be entirely hard to control them. Something was still insanely off. Derek flipped through the bible pages. As he did, he felt a chill run down his spine.

Derek spared a glance behind him, but didn’t see anything. He shivered, then turned back to his lunch. Haunted bible, yeah right. He would have to be more careful from now on. Stiles was starting to get to him, and that wasn’t a good thing.

 

.....

 

Sometimes it was difficult for Derek to remember why he was there, in the asylum. Mostly because sometimes it seemed like he belonged there. He was used to the guards, the simplicity of the life, the ease of it. In times like that, he would have to remind himself of his objective: get close to Stiles, find out what else he might know, and find out why the suicides were happening. The problem was, Stiles always seemed preoccupied with his own agenda. Each time Derek would try to talk to him, he would bring up the voices in his head, or his son’s new favorite movie, or how drab Jordan’s tie was. Maybe Stiles wasn't as stable as Derek had first thought, but there were some really odd things about that man that Derek couldn’t shake, and he refused to let go of this crazy guy until he got answers. 

Derek had been at Eichen House for two weeks when the next suicide occurred. He had woken up to only one guard that morning, and as he was escorted from his room and into the cafeteria, he could see the dozens of guards and CSI and police outside of the room. It was only a few rooms down from his own. And it was the perfect day for his own investigating. 

The guard got him as far as just outside of the hallway when a bloodcurdling scream came from the rec room, just a few yards ahead of them. The guard whirled on Derek. “Go to breakfast, Hale. Now.” The guard ran into the rec room, and Derek followed. He was completely shocked to see Stiles standing in the middle of the room, on the pool table, hands clutching onto his jumpsuit so tightly his fingernails had drawn blood through the material.

His mouth was wide in a silent scream, and his eyes were transfixed on a spot on the wall. The guard began talking to him, trying to get him to come down from the table, but his words just made Stiles’s screams become audible and Derek had to immediately clap his hands over his ears. He noticed that the cue balls on the pool table were arranged around Stiles in a weird circular pattern, and the cue sticks made and “x”--or was it a cross?--beneath his spread stance. His face was drained of any color and emotion. 

More guards shoved their way past Derek to help detain Stiles, not even paying attention to the unguarded patient silently watching the entire exchange. They dragged Stiles from the top of the table, and he went completely still in their arms, still screaming his head off. One of the nurses came in and plunged a needle in his arm. Within seconds, his eyes were drooping and his mouth fell slack. “Get him to the infirmary,” the nurse said. “There’s blood on his hands.” The guards nodded, and Derek moved out of the doorway as they carried him out of the room. As they passed him, he noticed that Stiles was mouthing something, seemingly the same word over and over again, in a frantic, soundless way. It made him shiver. Although the man sometimes seemed completely sane, Derek sometimes forgot that Stiles had real mental problems. 

He glanced into the rec room, blinking when he realized that all of the cue balls had been pocketed. Did one of the guards do that? Had he just imagined the circle earlier? Derek felt chilled again, the bible in his pocket burning a hole in his pants. He turned away quickly and made his way to the cafeteria. Maybe this place really was messing with his mind.


	3. You've Left Them Far Behind

It wasn’t until later in the day, during personal time, when Derek saw Stiles again. He was making his way into the small reading room they had available (the selection of books consisted entirely of Jane Austen, Stephanie Meyer, and Emily Dickens), when he saw Stiles shuffling into the room. 

“Stiles, how are you?” Derek asked him, walking within a foot of the man. Surprisingly, he said nothing, just walked past Derek and ran his fingers over the books on the bookshelf. Derek took a closer look, and realized that his eyes looked glazed over. His mouth was slightly open, moving in small, rapid movements, seemingly the same word over and over. His hands were tightly bandaged in white cloth, and he kept them clenched at his sides. “Stiles,” Derek said again, and his head turned slightly, but he didn’t quite bring himself to look at Derek. 

His silent mouthing became a whisper, and Derek leaned close, trying to hear. It was nothing but a jumbled mess of pitches. “What did they do to you?” He whispered. 

“Tranquilizer,” a voice said from the doorway, and Derek startled slightly. He spun around to see a large black man in an orderly’s uniform standing in the doorway, arms crossed as he watched them. “Get out of hand and we’ll use them on you. They really knock you out, but unfortunately we need to use them sometimes.” 

Derek looked at the guard curiously. “Do you not like that?” 

The guard shrugged, scratching his forearm. “I prefer non-violent methods of control. In a mental hospital, though…” He shrugged again. “If you can't contain one, it just gets the others going.” 

“I haven't seen you around before. What's your name?” 

“Boyd.” The dark-skinned man winked at him, then turned and left the room. Derek had a tingling feeling that Boyd had also been sent here to investigate. By whom, he didn't know, but it seemed like they might be on the same side. He filed the information away for later. It would definitely be helpful to have an ally who could access places mere patients could not.

Derek turned to talk to Stiles again, then stifled a scream when he saw that the man was two inches from his face. “My god, Stiles, I didn't hear you at all.” 

The man stared at the ground studiously, his whispers becoming barely audible. “You're too close, Derek Hale, too close too close too close. You're too curious. Want to look in the box? You're Pandora. The box? Derek Hale, if you look too closely you're going to burn. Burn, Scotty, burn.” He looked up with almost glowing amber eyes, his voice clearer and louder. “I tried to stop you. All you want to talk about are the suicides. Don't go poking around, Derek Hale. Pigs don't like to be cornered. Pigs in a poke. Suicides aren't choice, you deserve to die without demons.” 

“What are you talking about? Poking around where?” 

Stiles’s hands flew to his head. It looked like he was trying to pull his hair out, but his hair was shaved down too far. His voice came out at a normal speaking level this time. “You know. They know. We all know. We know too much. I want it. I want it to stop. We’re not safe. Hark. Hark! He’s close, too. He’s too close. We’re all getting closer. Closer to the tunnel. The light? The tunnel end? I don’t know, can’t think, what…? Hark! He’s too close, you’re too close. Step back.” The man himself made two steps forward, one back, muttering quickly. 

“Stiles, you’re making no sense.”

The man jumped away as if burned and shrieked something unintelligible. Then he turned his eyes directly to Derek’s. “You don’t know what you’re toying with, Derek Hale! The son of innocents, the father of sorrow! You do not understand the fate that will befall you if you don’t do something about those ghosts that walk in your footsteps!” He yelled, and Derek backed away, scared at the fury in his voice.

“You stay away from them, Derek Hale. Or you won’t be able to live to regret it.” Stiles stared at him, all emotion gone from his face, eyes blank. He turned back around and went back to his aimless book browsing. Derek, thoroughly spooked, left the room with goosebumps lining his arms. 

 

.....

 

Later that night, Derek laid in his cot, mulling Stiles’s freakout over. He said something about how suicides weren’t a choice, or something like that....could he be trying to tell Derek that the suicides weren’t, in fact, suicides, but murders? And Hark...the word (name?) rang a bell, but Derek couldn’t quite remember. 

He really didn’t like the way Stiles had kept singling him out, telling him about his doom, and the ghosts in his footsteps? Maybe it was his way of telling Derek to get over his family’s deaths, but how would Stiles know so much about him? Then again, he had known about Derek’s mother’s favorite flower. Even said his own mother had shared the favoritism. Stiles himself made very little sense. It was like Stiles knew that Derek needed the information, and was trying to stop him from getting what he needed...while helping him? 

Derek groaned, feeling like pulling his hair out. 

Hark! Noah Hark, Stiles’s son. But...what did he have to do with anything?

Derek shook his head. This fucking place was driving him crazy. Obviously, Stiles was just missing the kid. His 3-year-old son had nothing to do with...with what? With the asylum? The murders? Stiles’s sanity? ...his own sanity?

Derek cried out, a long and throaty yell, the way he used to in the months following the fire. This place was too quiet. Somewhere down the long, cement hallway, his yell was echoed back to him from a different mouth. He was losing his focus on the case. He kind of felt like he was losing his shit. And, not for the first time, Derek wondered if he actually belonged in Eichen. 

 

.....

 

Derek scanned the room, bouncing his knee incessantly, feeling a little like he figured Stiles might every day. It was visiting day, and even though he was still a fairly new patient/prisoner, he was still allowed to have a visitor. He figured it was courtesy of his uncle. Peter had called him to tell him to expect Cora, and that he was supposed to give her a full report. Visitor’s day had been going on for a few minutes, so he figured he had about five minutes to come up with something before Cora go there.

Derek tapped on the metal table, waiting for Cora to show. When he looked up to scan the room again, he noticed that a small child was staring at him with an unnatural intensity. The kid was holding onto an adult’s hand, but he stood completely still, eyes glued to Derek. It made him shiver, because _he knew those eyes._ They were Stiles’s. The intensity, the shape. Except instead of belonging to a twenty-something man with a shaved head and impossible moles, they were on a 3-foot-tall child.

The kid must have been his son. 

The kid--Hark, that was his name--had messy brown hair, a small nose that wasn’t quite the shape of Stiles’s, and long eyelashes. He was missing the moles that made up the map of Stiles’s skin, and his eyes were blue instead of hazel. But there was no mistaking the resemblance.

When Derek moved his eyes away from the kid, he saw that the hand he was holding onto belonged to an older man, who looked enough like both father and son to be identified as Stiles’s father. The man had salt and pepper hair, lots of laugh and stress lines, and facial expressions that matched Stiles’s. He looked tired, but once his searching eyes found their target, his entire face transformed into something that was ten years younger. The recipient of it also had the doofiest look on his face, and Derek felt a surge of fondness for Stiles. The second he felt it, he tried to shake it off. He wasn’t allowed to feel this way about anyone, especially murderers. He was on a job, and it was incredibly unprofessional that he had to keep reminding himself of that.

His eyes found the kid again, and even though Hark was hugging Stiles like his life depended on it, his blue eyes still stared intensely at Derek.

“Derek?” He heard, and he turned back to the table to see his sister standing uncomfortably on the other side of the cool table. 

“Cora.” He stared up at her for a moment. It had been about six years since he had last seen her, and she looked incredibly different. Her dark hair was longer, shinier. Her cheekbones were more defined, she was taller. Her figure was more woman than girl. She resembled their mother more than their father. Actually, she looked like Laura. Derek did some quick mental math. She was probably about the same age Laura was when she…

“Can I...sit?”

Derek snapped out of his mind, making quick eye contact with his sister before quickly nodding. “Of course, please.” 

She delicately sat, looking out of place among the navy jumpsuits in her pale pink blouse and pencil skirt. She looked good, really good. Derek told her as much. 

She looked at him with her stormy eyes, something she inherited from their mom, unlike Derek and Laura. “You look almost exactly the same. Sad, almost.” She swallowed. “I’ve missed you, Derek.” 

His cheeks colored. “I...I’ve missed you too, Cora,” he said quietly. They both knew full well why they never saw each other, and it was because they didn't even try. After the fire, Cora went to South Africa for a couple of years, and once she returned for college, she hid away in Chicago, far from Derek and their uncle. And Derek, well he and Laura had been in New York for a little while before he joined the FBI and moved back to California to help with their branch on the west coast, but once he got there he took undercover mission after undercover mission. It was easier. The siblings hadn’t really meant to never see each other, but things had been even harder since Laura’s funeral all those years ago. Derek supposed they both reminded each other too much of what they once had. 

“How are you faring?” She asked, voice low.

“It’s odd here,” Derek admitted. “I don’t always feel safe. I’ve met a few people I think I can trust, but everyone here is kind of really insane.”

Laura-- _Cora_ \--smiled at that. “Well, you are in an insane asylum.” She noticed the way Derek was looking at her. “What?” She asked, smile vanishing. 

“You look so much like her,” Derek said softly. 

Cora paused at that. “I miss her, too.” They were silent for a moment before Cora wiped away a single tear that had somehow made its way halfway down her cheek without Derek noticing it and cleared her throat. “Peter told me I have to report back for you? What information do you have for me?” 

Derek sighed and began telling her about the different people here, his suspicions about Harris, the director of the asylum, and about how he thought the orderly from the library was another undercover agent, but wasn’t sure who he was affiliated with. He told her a few things about Stiles, but not much. He also mentioned Parrish and a few other sketchy patients, orderlies, and guards, but he knew that none of this would actually be helpful. Cora didn’t seem to care, though.

“Thank you, Derek. I’ll make sure to let Uncle Peter know what you’ve told me.” She paused again, carefully considering. “Are you...happy?”

Derek looked blankly at her. Happy. That was something he almost forgot about. Being happy. It seemed like a strange concept, like something that he had always dreamed of as a child, something like having a puppy, but never imagined himself having now in adulthood. He was about to shake her question off, but his eyes wandered back to Stiles, who was holding his son in his arms and softly singing to him. 

He shrugged. “What does that even mean?” He asked, but it wasn’t really a question. 

Cora’s eyes seemed to pool for a moment before she stood. “I’ll see you soon, Derek. Stay safe.” Derek watched as she hurried out, heels clicking on the concrete floor. His eyes found their way back to the Stilinskis, and he watched as Stiles pressed a kiss into his son’s hair before gesturing for him to go play in the kid’s corner. The kid’s corner was Eichen’s sad attempt at a “safe space” for children of visitors or prisoners to play while the adults conversed. Derek watched as Hark made his way to the corner, picked up a single building block, and then turned his eyes back to Derek. 

Derek stole a glance back at Stiles, but him and his father were in deep conversation. Derek turned back to the toddler to find that the kid was only a few feet away from him. If he were any jumpier he would have startled, but years in the FBI taught him how to suppress those urges. The child looked at him with his huge blue eyes and set the building block on the table in front of him. “You have a lot of them,” the tiny, high voice of the toddler informed him. 

Derek looked at the child, but made no move to get closer. “A lot of what?”

The boy looked around, and his eyes shined with a hint of excitement when he looked back into Derek’s. “Ghosts,” the child said. “I’ve never seen anyone with this many,” the kid said, then sobered up a little. “‘Cept for this one man on the street one time. My Papa said that he was a cereal man.” The kid held up his hand to his mouth and stage whispered, “That means he’s bad.” The kid straightened up again. “But you’re not bad. The ghosts say so.”

Derek held back a smile. “What ghosts do I have?” 

The child seemed to stare blankly into the distance before focusing his eyes back on Derek. “There’s a nice lady, and a man with glasses, and a pretty lady. She looks like the other lady that was here. I also played with the two little girls, we’re friends now. I like their matching dresses.” The boy looked straight into Derek’s eyes, his own darker and now serious. “They won’t stop talking. They’re really mad at you, mister. But not in the bad way. More like the way Daddy gets mad at me. Like he loves me.”

Derek stared blankly at the child. A man with glasses...a look-alike...two little girls with matching dresses….

“How do you know I have them?” Derek asked, his voice rough. 

“They follow you always,” the boy said simply. “They’re sad.” Hark hummed and rocked on his feet a little. “You know, there’s bad ghosts here too. And other sad ones. They’re scared. They didn’t want to die.”

Hearing words like that come from a three-year-old stunned Derek. Did three-year-olds even know about death? Did they understand it? Surely not.

“This place is scary. I don’t like that Daddy is here. The ghosts are always moaning and crying. They are scared for Daddy.” The kid’s eyes were huge. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Derek asked, leaning down lower, and Hark nodded vigorously, moving closer. “I’m a good guy, and I’ll make sure nothing happens to your daddy in this place.”

The child pulled away, looking troubled. “How?” Derek opened his mouth to answer before stopping when he realized the boy wasn’t done. “How can you make sure if you can’t stop the yellow-haired lady from following you?” 

Derek’s blood turned cold. He looked the tiny boy in the eyes. “What did you say?”

The boy wasn’t even focused on Derek, instead his gaze was fixated directly behind him. “The yellow-haired lady still follows you. She isn’t nice like the others. If you can’t stop her, how are you gonna stop the others?”

Derek tried to hide how shook he was to the core. “How about you go back to your daddy, okay? I think visiting time is almost over.”

The child was about to run off, but he glanced back at Derek one more time. “They want you to check the potted plant,” the little boy said. “Goodbye, Hale,” he blinked, then skipped back to Stiles, who was smiling widely at his child.

Derek looked down at the building block that Hark has left him, which was somehow grasped in his hand. A large, red "A" stared up at him, and it took all of his willpower not to hurl the block across the room. Derek was sure he was visibly shaken, and when he stood his knees almost gave out. He somehow found the strength to walk out of the visiting room, and for a minute he thought he heard someone calling his name, but he blocked it from his mind as a guard grabbed his arm to escort him back to his room. Once he was safely locked away, he sat on his bed, numbly staring at the blank wall, a yellow-haired woman smiling coldly at him from his mind.


	4. The Sorrow Your Heart Holds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The real fun is only just beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still a WIP! almost done!

It was a few days later when Stiles approached him, eyes serious in a way Derek had never seen them before. “We need to talk,” he said, sitting down next to Derek instead of across from him. He didn’t have a lunch tray with him. Derek just turned to look at him, still chewing on a dried tomato. “I’m serious, Derek Hale! We need to talk. I’ve learned something important.”

Derek looked around and then stood up abruptly, moving to dump his tray.

Stiles stepped in front of him. “Did you not hear me?” His jaw was set, he looked so much like a determined child who wanted cookies before dinner. 

“I heard you, Stiles,” Derek grunted. “But if I don’t dump my tray, they’ll be angry with me.” He stepped around Stiles and dumped it, adding the tray to the dishwashing line. When he turned around, Stiles was chest-to-chest with him. 

“Let’s go get our meds,” the man said levelly, and quickly walked to the lines, which were short since lunch had barely started. Once they had swallowed their pills (watching Stiles swallow 10 pills in one go was an experience) Stiles led derek to the library room, where he sat on the side of the room opposite the doorway, which had no door connected to it. 

“I recently learned something,” Stiles started, eyes darting around the room, as if daring someone to come inside. “The murders. They happen every two weeks. You know that. The murderer. It’s him. I had my suspicions, but…” Stiles looked at him, his eyes wide and face sheet white. “I was right. They told me. It took a lot of courage, but they told me.”

Derek scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. “Who told you? Who is it?” 

“It’s Brunski, Derek Hale. Brunski is the murderer.”

Derek backed away. “The chief orderly?” Brunski. Derek definitely knew Brunski. He had seen glimpses of him in the halls, read his case file like he did with all the rest of the staff. Brunski had worked at Eichen just shy of seven years, from a few odd jobs before that, and a GED before those. 

“We should all be scared. Terrified. He has the power. And we’re just a few spooks and patients who can’t see straight.” 

Derek backed away further. “What do you mean, spooks?” 

Stiles snorted, but it was an ugly thing. “You know what I mean, Derek Hale. I thought we talked about this? The first day we met, the yard.”

“I remember that you accused me of misusing my badge,” Derek said warily. 

Stiles shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face. “I had to get your attention somehow.”

“But how do you know? And who are the other spooks?” 

Stiles shifted on his feet. “The orderly. Dark-skinned, tall, built as hell. Could probably snap me like a toothpick, to be honest.” He fell silent for a moment and a look of urgency painted his face. “We can’t speak anymore, Derek Hale. Continue with caution. We’ll talk more later.” 

He walked out hastily, and not even a minute later the built orderly walked in. He raised an eyebrow. “I believe we have a lot to talk about, Agent Hale.”

 

.....

 

Turns out, Agent Vernon Boyd of the FBI San Francisco field office was also here on official business, assigned after Derek was as backup. Apparently, Peter was supposed to tell him but failed to do so. Probably for his own amusement. When Derek told him of Stiles’s suspicions, Boyd only nodded. “He said the same to me, and it makes sense. Brunski is violent and unstable. He has what seems to be a skewed sense of justice, and motive could be that these are justified mercy killings. I can get a group in here right away to extract him.” 

“We need evidence,” Derek said. 

Boyd nodded. “I’ll go through his things, let you know if I find anything. I have a feeling that if I can’t find what we need, I might be able to get him to talk. Brunski likes the sound of his own voice, that’s for sure.”

Derek inclined his head at the large agent, grateful. “Thank you, and stay cautious.”

Boyd nodded once more, then left the room. Derek let out a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding for three weeks. Maybe this would finally end soon, and he could get the hell out of Eichen. 

 

.....

 

Brunski was apprehended as early as the next day. Apparently, Boyd found a list of patient names, some crossed off in red pen. The crossed off ones were the dead ones. That was enough to get the authorities a warrant, and once they had it they found tons of other evidence, such as the sheets he was already tying for the next victim. With all of the evidence stacked against him, they were sure Brunski was going away for a long time.

Despite the case coming to an end, Peter told Derek to stay undercover. “There’s something about this Brunski I don’t like for the crimes. I need you to stay a few more days,” he had said in their most recent phone conversation, and Derek had agreed. While Brunski could easily overpower and control patients, he didn’t really have the brains to pull off such an operation. There was a good chance that there was still someone--probably a member of the staff--who was still in on it. 

Agent Boyd had been pulled from the case after apprehending Brunski since his cover was blown, and Derek was unsure if they would send another agent to take his place. It seemed unlikely since the killer had technically been caught, but in the back of his mind he was hoping that he might have more backup than a few unstable Eichen patients if anything went south in the few days he was still there. 

Another thing Derek was interested in investigating was Stiles himself. He had apparently killed his best friend, but Stiles didn’t show any violent tendencies (his weird spells were just creepy, not homicidal). Plus, how did he know that Brunski was behind the murders? And how the hell did his kid know about Kate? There were just too many unanswered questions for Derek’s liking, and he intended to get answers before his assignment was up. Unfortunately, Stiles had been avoiding him like the plague, as if he knew that Derek wanted to speak with him. It was annoying as hell, and took a few days before Derek could finally corner him in the library. 

“Stiles. Why have you been avoiding me?”

The young man wouldn’t make eye contact, and stared studiously at his shoes. “It’s over, isn’t it? You’re supposed to leave now.”

“Not quite yet,” Derek tilted his head, once again a little miffed that Stiles could call him out like that. 

The man finally managed to get his eyes to flicker to Derek’s own, but quickly focused them on Derek’s left ear. “I...I haven’t been doing well,” he said softly. “They’ve been worse since he left.”

“Who has?” Derek asked, backing off a little. Stiles cradled his arms against his chest, as if trying to fold in upon himself. 

_“Them,_ Derek Hale.” He turned his face away from Derek’s, taking in a shuddering breath. “They still can’t rest.”

Derek took a step closer to Stiles, and felt a sudden chill rush down his spine. He subconsciously reached to brush his fingertips against the bible in his pocket. “Stiles. Stiles, what’s wrong? What do you mean?” The man didn’t respond. “Stiles, look at me.”

Stiles turned his head slowly, and when Derek saw his face he saw fresh tears running down his cheeks. His voice was almost a whisper. “Derek Hale, I think I'm losing my mind.” 

Derek walked towards him, scared to spook the young man, but was surprised when Stiles threw himself into Derek’s arms, sobbing. “I can't tell if I'm actually crazy or not anymore,” he cried. “This place...this place is killing me.” 

Not knowing what to say, Derek voiced the first words that formed in his mouth. “Tell me how I can help.” 

Stiles suddenly pulled back, tear stains on his cheeks. He shook his head quickly, then wiped his face with his sleeves. “Tell me about the blonde-haired woman,” he said instead of offering something helpful, and Derek felt as if he had been slapped. 

“What?”

Stiles sniffed, fiddling with his sleeves. “I get the dark-haired people. I can guess who they are. But who’s the blonde woman? Her aura is much different. Hark noticed it, too. He was a little unsettled.”

Derek stared at him, jaw working. “H...how?” Was all he could manage.

Stiles, bright red eyes and nose and all, just gave him a look like he was the dumbest person Stiles ever had the misfortune of talking to. “How much more obvious can we get? I’m pretty sure my son already told you. Do you remember?”

Derek almost laughed, though he felt sick. He didn’t think he would ever forget the look on that child’s face as he said the word, _“Ghosts.”_

“You’re being ridiculous,” Derek said instead.

Stiles cocked an eyebrow, as of to say, “Am I?” Instead, he asked again. “Who is she?” 

Derek pursed his lips. He did think there was a bit of an imbalance there, since he knew Stiles’s background and Stiles didn't know much of his (that he was aware of). “She was my girlfriend. She...ah, was a serial arsonist. Burned my family’s house down with them inside it.” Derek studiously refused to look at the man, already feeling the disappointment. “After I joined the FBI, we had a task force apprehend her. I helped and, in a shootout, it was my bullet that killed her.” 

His face felt too hot, and even though he was the one holding Stiles between himself and the wall, Derek felt trapped. 

“I can feel her hatred for you,” Stiles said quietly. “You did right.” Derek looked up in surprise, and saw that Stiles was looking at him with assurance, not pity. “And it's not your fault. Your family wants you to know that.” 

“But, it was. I was the one who brought Kate into their lives, she never would have known them if not for me--”

“She’s the one who killed them, Derek. The one who manipulated and raped you. The one who caused all of this pain and suffering.” Stiles’s eyes were intense. “Not you.”

His eyes focused on the empty space behind Derek’s right shoulder. “I, uh, I know what it feels like to blame yourself for something awful. I can’t even imagine you shouldering that blame for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Derek let the words sink in for a moment. “Are you...talking about Scott?” 

At his name, Stiles jolted and his eyes brushed Derek’s for a millisecond. “I figured you would have looked me up.” He smiled ruefully above Derek’s shoulder. “Yes, I mean Scott.”

“Tell me what happened,” Derek pried, gently. 

Stiles shrugged, still refusing eye contact. “What’s there to tell that you probably don’t already know?” 

“I don’t know what his death meant to you,” Derek said softly.

“What his death meant to me?” Stiles laughed, cruelly. “It meant everything. Scott was my brother! We were family! And he left me because I couldn’t save him!” Stiles closed his eyes, and Derek watched a single tear make its was down his cheek. 

“It was April. A few days after my birthday, and I had just gotten back from the spring semester. Scottie, he--” Stiles choked at the name, “he called me, told me he couldn’t do it anymore. About a year before, his girlfriend, Allison, had been killed in an unsolved hit-and-run. He was going to propose to her before she…. And since then, he had been taking it really hard, you know? The love of his life, just ripped away. No answers. And he had been seeing someone about the depression, but he never told me how bad it was getting. So I had no idea. And, and he called me. April 30th. And told me he couldn't do it anymore.” Stiles’s voice was almost a whisper as he repeated the line. 

“He told me he was at our motel, the one we always used to stay at during our high school lacrosse games when the town was too far north, even though it was extremely run down. I drove the hour and a half to get there as fast as I could, and once I got there….” 

Stiles looked like he had stars in his eyes, he was so far away, as if he was seeing the scene unfold as he told it.

“There was gasoline. Everywhere. All over the ground. Scott was drenched. It was raining. In his right hand was a...a burnt out match, and in his left was a lit flare. It was so red, the way it reflected….

“And Scottie, he was standing in the biggest gasoline puddle. And he kept screaming at me, screaming to stay back, and that him being gone would only hurt for a little while. And that he needed the pain to go away. And that he loved me.” Stiles swallowed hard, throat clicking. “I-I tried to tell him how much we would miss him. How much I loved him. How he didn’t have to do this, How Allison wouldn’t have wanted it. I went right into that puddle and held his hand, and tried to pry the flare from him. I still remember how hot it was,” Stiles looked down at his left hand, and Derek saw that it had faded burn scars on it. “And I had it, I thought I had it, but...he pushed me. And I fell out of the way, and I remember screaming so hard that my throat hurt, but he had dropped the flare.”

His eyes were hollow. “I remember his screams, too, and I tried to put the fire out, but it was too late, and then I was holding him in my arms, my Scottie, and I called 911 to report the death and I just cried. I cried and cried and cried. But Scott was still dead. And then the cops arrived, and I told them what happened. That I had killed my best friend by not being there for him. Through my neglect, he was dead.

“And there was a trial, but I don’t remember much of it. I remember Melissa holding me in her arms, crying. And my father, crying. And the judge, with her kind eyes, and then I was in prison.”

Derek blinked hard. “So Scott committed suicide? But, but your file says that you admitted to the murder.”

Stiles glared at Derek. “What I did was as good as murdering him. I deserve this.”

Derek laughed cruelly. “You talk about false blame and guilt over things you can’t control. Stiles, you shouldn’t even be here! You should be raising your son, a free man! How could you do that to yourself?”

“I am guilty, Derek Hale! I have to pay for what I did to him!” Stiles pushed Derek aside, and Derek watched as the young man ran from the room.

“Stiles!” Derek yelled, ready to run after him. Just then, a loud scream echoed down the opposite hallway that Stiles had just run down. 

A young man dressed in patient’s clothing came sprinting down the corridor, a look of terror on his face and thick, red blood staining his uniform. “Neil’s dead!” He screamed. “Someone help, Neil’s been murdered!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a liiiiittle shorter than usual, bu we're getting down to the end!! thanks for reading! :) xx


	5. Still Walk Behind You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "thrilling" end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who stayed with this story. It's taken me an entire summer to complete it, but with 3 weeks left before I go back to school it's nice to know that I don't have unfinished business.  
> Sorry for any mistakes, this isn't beta'd!!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the ending, I myself liked it. I don't think there's going to be an epilogue, so thank you for reading!

Derek stared down at the body, disgusted. When Luce, the patient that had found his friend, said that Neil had been murdered, he was only guessing. But it was an easy guess. Neil had been strung up, as if to hang, but now was lying on the ground, stab wounds in his chest and many contusions on his neck. The sheets used to hang him were lying not far from the body. From what Derek could remember about the crime scene photos of previous “suicides,” they looked almost exactly like the one right in front of him, minus the stab wounds. Derek figured that this was another murder-to-look-like-a-suicide, but it had gone wrong. 

“Get out of here,” a guard pushed him aside, and Derek complied. He was still undercover, after all. He made his way down the hallway, mind racing. If Peter’s instincts were right, then Brunski had only been the brawn of the operation. That would make sense, then. If the brains behind the operation tried to continue without the brawn, there was a higher possibility of something going wrong. Hence the stab wounds, which kind of took away from the whole suicide thing. 

“It’s not over,” Stiles said as he took a seat next to Derek during lunch. “Why the fuck isn’t it over?” Derek spared a glance over at the inmate, chewing on some overdone chicken. He figured the question was rhetorical, so he kept chewing. “This must be why they can’t rest. They know it’s not over.” Derek figured that Stiles was talking about the...voices. “Obviously they only knew about Brunski, which means that he’s the only one they actually saw. So if Brunski actually killed them, does that mean that the person who’s actually behind the deaths is still out there, trying to continue the work even though Brunski usually did that part.” He paused his rambling and looked at Derek. “Do you think this person is another member of the staff, or a patient?”

Derek swallowed his food, impressed that Stiles had come to the same realization that they had back at the office. “There’s a pretty high probability that it’s another staff member. They’d both be able to access the same areas, and it wouldn’t look weird for them to talk like it might with Brunski and a patient.”

“What did Brunski say? About motive, I mean. Why did he do it?”

Derek sighed. “My supervisor says that he thought he was showing them mercy. That they were all so insane that it made him feel like he was doing the right thing. That they all wanted to die anyway, so he took the choice from them and stop their miserable lives from continuing. But….” 

“But what?”

“But there’s a chance that both members of the duo don’t have the same motive.”

Stiles looked at him. “Why would that be?”

Derek shrugged. “We find that many partners have different motives, especially if they’re a serial group or if they have different roles. So since there’s a brain person and a brawn person, that means that the brain could easily have been manipulating the brawn into thinking that they want the same thing. More likely than not, the brain has a completely different motive than Brunski.”

“Huh,” Stiles said, seemingly lost in thought. “I’m honestly getting no help here. The ones that usually follow me around only knew about Brunski.” 

“Can’t you just....ask Neil if he saw who it was?” Derek asked, feeling silly. By asking that, he was enabling Stiles’s odd ghost claims. But, well...Derek couldn’t deny that Stiles was giving him results.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t work like that, Derek Hale. Not everyone leaves part of themselves behind when they die. Apparently, Neil was ready, even if he did go too soon. He didn’t leave me anything to contact him with.” He grew silent immediately after that, leaving Derek feeling uncomfortable and even sillier. Okay….Derek glanced over at him again to see that his eyes were unfocused as he moved them around their empty table. Derek shivered, thinking about all of the apparitions Stiles was apparently seeing. He subconsciously touched the bible in his pocket. Stiles caught the movement, and his eyes lit up. “Of course! You have a shitload of them following you! Here, give it to me.” 

Derek stared at him. “What?”

Stiles held his hand out, exasperated. “Give me the bible, Derek Hale.”

Derek suddenly felt too attached to it. “No,” he said simply. 

Stiles sighed and reached into Derek’s pocket himself, despite Derek’s shocked squawks of protest. “Honestly, you’re way too attached to this thing for not being a religious person yourself.”

“Stiles, I don’t know how to tell you this, but do you really think you can communicate with...what are you doing?”

Derek watched with unbridled interest as Stiles flipped through the bible without looking at the pages, just inhaling their scent deeply. When he opened his eyes again, they almost looked like they were glowing. But when Derek blinked again, they were back to normal. Stiles was looking intently at what seemed to be the seat across from them, lips pursed and bible clutched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were turning white. Derek watched the man’s intense concentration for a few minutes before Stiles broke it, blinking rapidly as if to make up for lost time.

“Derek Hale, something very bad is going on here,” he said, his face pale. 

Derek resisted the urge to say _“No shit.”_ Instead, he reminded Stiles that people were dying.

“People always die, Derek Hale, whether it’s their time or not. But we have someone here who is killing people when they purposefully know that it isn’t their time yet.” Stiles looked like he was far away, maybe even another world, as he spoke. “And it seems like they think my time is up.”

Derek felt something like a peach pit settling in the bottom of his stomach. Or maybe bigger, like an avocado. “What do you mean? Stiles?”

“The dead are predicting my death, Derek Hale. They see it coming. They know it’s soon.” His eyes looked more haunted than Derek had ever seen them. “And they’re afraid they can’t stop it.”

“No, Stiles, Stiles look at me,” Derek said, trying to get the man’s attention back. He was losing him, and fast. The last thing Derek needed right now was for Stiles to go crazy on him and ignore him for another week. If Derek decided to listen to what the spirits were apparently saying, Stiles might not have that long. Although Derek wasn’t exactly sold on this _holy shit Stiles isn’t actually crazy or a murderer he can just see ghosts and so can his son?_ thing, Stiles had been mostly right throughout the investigation, and Derek wasn’t going to stop listening to him now, especially since he was talking about his own death. “Do they mean that the killer is going to come after you?”

Stiles’s eyes suddenly burst to life, losing their glassy look. “I can’t! I can’t!” He ran his hands over his fuzzy head, mouth opened wide in agony. “I can’t leave Hark an orphan, oh god, Derek Hale, I can’t!” Derek tried to rub his back reassuringly but Stiles threw Derek’s hands off of him. “I deserve to be here, but I don’t deserve to die, not like this, Derek Hale.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Derek said softly, putting his face close to Stiles’s, “I won’t let that happen, okay? You’re going to see Hark again. You’re going to be fine.” He drummed his fingers on the table, mind racing. “I can get some backup in here. Not a lot, since we don’t have solid evidence. But some. And it’s easier, right? Now that we know that you’re the next target? We can protect you. You can be ready. See their face. I’ll stay as close as I possibly can. The killer usually strikes during the day, as not to arouse suspicion! All employees have to swipe their card to get into patient rooms at night, so you’ll be safe until I can stay close to you when it’s daytime. We can do this,” Derek said, trying to be encouraging. 

Stiles didn’t looked convinced, but at least he wasn’t inconsolable anymore. “I sure as hell hope that you know what you’re doing, Derek Hale,” he said, completely serious. 

Derek didn’t want to worry him, so he said nothing to that. But he sure as hell hoped he did, too.

 

....

 

“Derek Hale!” Derek heard the voice during outdoor time, and he turned to see Stiles hurrying towards him. The man looked worried. ”It’s going to happen soon,” he said, looking down at his hands. “And I’m scared.”

Derek opened his mouth to console the man, but Stiles continued before he could.

“I’m afraid of a lot of things. I’m not afraid of dying, but I’m afraid of heights. Of my father not taking care of himself. Of one of my police friends dying on the job. Of leaving my son alone. And, finally, I’m afraid of dying without doing this,” Stiles lunged forward and pressed his lips to Derek’s. At first, Derek made a high-pitched noise of surprise, but he quickly caught up and moved his lips, eyes closing with pleasure. It was needy, convoluted with hands, tongue, and body heat. As he was beginning to feel the end of the kiss, he opened his eyes, and for a moment he could’ve sworn that he saw Laura standing behind Stiles, smiling. But then Stiles broke the kiss and when he blinked she was gone.

“That was a great kiss, Derek Hale. Don’t let me die so we can do it again.” 

Derek watched in absolute awe as Stiles walked away, as if he hadn’t just kissed Derek’s brains out right after confessing his absolute fear of being murdered. Kissing a crazy person was a lot more pleasant than Derek had expected. Or maybe it was because kissing Stiles was something he had been fleetingly thinking about for the past few weeks anyways. Wondering how his lips would feel, his tongue would taste, where his hands would travel. It was kind of really pleasant. 

Derek hadn’t been with someone since Kate. At least, not emotionally. He was still a person, he had needs. He had had plenty of physical relationships with other people throughout the years. More than he’d care to admit, actually. But thinking of Stiles...of his warm eyes and wide mouth and sloping shoulders...well, it made him want to make sure that he didn't let Stiles die. Ever. And maybe he could hold onto him and keep him for a little while.

Derek imagined a world where Stiles wasn’t in the asylum, where they had met before Kate ruined him, when he would’ve been able to give himself to someone for the sake of trust and happiness. Where he would introduce Stiles to his family, young, naive Derek sweating nervously and Stiles charming his parents with his smile and wit. Someplace and time where nothing would matter but Stiles and him. Where Stiles wasn’t plagued by voices or the demons that came along with Scott’s death. When he didn’t have to medicate to be sane. Where he didn’t have to be scared for his life.

Derek imagined that life for them, and found himself mourning that they never had it. But along with that, he also felt a burning need to achieve as much of it as possible. Exonerate Stiles, have the court look at his case again, have another psychiatrist speak with him to reevaluate his mental state, introduce himself to Stiles’s father, teach Hark how to ride a bike. Maybe all of that would one day be a possibility, but at the moment he needed to focus on the most important thing: keeping Stiles alive.

 

...

 

The next day, there was a weird electricity in the air, as if a thunderstorm was brewing inside the asylum. A few fights broke out before breakfast, and Derek could hear numerous inmates screaming in their cells before his guards came to take him to the cafeteria. Today had to be it. The climax of his time here at the asylum. The day he finally caught the guy responsible. 

He didn’t see Stiles at breakfast, but that didn’t worry him: it was Tuesday, and Stiles had early morning counseling on Tuesdays. They never ate breakfast together when Stiles had counseling. Plus, Stiles’s dad and son were supposed to visit him later today, so Stiles would have to prepare for that as well. Usually that didn’t happen until after lunch, so Derek would be able to work out a plan with the man then. He had a feeling Stiles was already hyper-aware of the change in the air, and was sure that he would get another ‘Don’t let me die, Derek Hale’ lecture. 

Was it weird that he was kind of looking forward to it?

Despite the fact that Derek was a very patient man (he was the king of stakeouts, no one could deny that), he felt like he had ants in his pants by the time lunch rolled around. He had had a group therapy session with Jordan and the rest of the gang, he had shared a secret look with the new undercover agent--Lahey--in passing, and now he was sitting in the cafeteria, a plate of thick mashed potatoes and imitation chicken laid out in front of him as his eyes swept the room for Stiles. 

Stiles, who annoyed the living shit out of him. Stiles, who could almost certainly see ghosts. Stiles, who had predicted his own death date with the help of said ghosts. Stiles, who most definitely was not there. 

Derek pushed away his plate as he stood up, concerned. Lunch was already coming to an end (they were intentionally short to decrease the possibility of riots and crazy outbreaks), but there had been no sign of the man. Derek took no time to think as he dumped his tray and got his meds, as to not rouse suspicion. He hated to waste the minutes, but if he didn’t get his meds he would have the staff tracking him down. Better to pretend everything was alright...at least for now.

Derek quickly but carefully made his way back to block A, trying not to be seen by an orderly. If he was caught, he would have to go into the yard with almost everyone else. His room was in block C, so he navigated best he could, using the small signs on the walls to guide him to where Stiles’s room was. The man had offhandedly mentioned during one of his tangents that his room was A-14. He let the information slip while complaining about his loud cell neighbor who was a paranoid schizophrenic. Something about aliens and square dancing. 

Anyway, Derek finally made it to A block, and his heart was hammering in his chest as he checked room numbers, making his way further into the block. The bible was burning a hole in his pocket. He was only at room A-08 when he heard muffled yells coming from deeper in the cell block. Derek broke into a sprint, not caring who might see him, as long as he could make it to the room in time. Oh god, please let him make it in time.

When he saw the black little lettering of A-14, he saw that the door was flung wide open. 

Derek burst through the doorway, breathing erratically, and saw that Stiles was there, but not alone. A figure in the scrubs of an orderly was struggling with the man, and had a bedsheet around Stiles’s neck, choking him.

“Stiles!” The word burst involuntarily from Derek’s mouth, but Stiles’s wide eyes were too focused on his assailant to look at Derek. The assailant, though, turned to face the new person. Derek was a bit surprised to see that it was the pretty face of Nurse Cross that greeted him, but not at all too taken aback. What he knew about Nurse Cross could fill a notecard, but he knew that she was disliked among the patients due to her roughness and impatience. She had given Derek his meds more than a few times.

“Stand back, Derek. You don’t want to be apart of this,” she said, still holding tightly onto the bedsheet. Stiles was turning slightly blue.

“Let him go,” Derek growled, taking a step forward.

“Get back! Get back!” She shrieked, knocking Stiles roughly against the wall. The man made a choked noise, and his eyes closed as he continued his labored breaths.

“Calm down!” Derek said. “Calm down. We know what you did,” Derek said, taking a step back and putting a placating hand out in front of him. “We know that you told Brunski to murder all of those patients. You don’t have to murder another one. It’s over.”

“No it’s not!” She yelled. “It’s not over until all of the scum here in this place are dead!”

“Nurse Cross, it’s over. Let Stiles go. He didn’t do anything.”

“Didn’t do anything!?” She asked hysterically. “You’re all in here because of what you’ve done! You’re all monsters, vermin that need to be exterminated! And he’s next!” She turned to Stiles, her body still open to Derek, and she yanked on the bed sheet, suspending him into the air. 

Derek felt himself scream as he reached out towards Nurse Cross, but before he could do anything she was already on the ground, shrieking at something that wasn’t there. “No, no! You’re all dead! I killed you! _I killed you!”_ Derek watched in unabashed horror as bloody scratches appeared on her chest, face, and neck, blood pouring from the new wounds. He didn’t ponder it long as he ran to where Stiles was hanging, grasping frantically at his neck. Derek stood on the bed and reached over to where Stiles was, easing the tightness on the sheet, and Stiles fell out of its death grip, gasping for air. He clung to Derek, tears pouring down his cheeks, and for a moment Derek could see at least five people tearing Nurse Cross apart where she lay on the floor, screaming bloody murder. When he blinked, they disappeared, but the nurse was still sustaining injuries beyond repair. 

“Come on, Stiles, we have to get out of here,” Derek carried the man out of room A-14. Once they were at the edge of the A block, he set Stiles down on unsteady feet. The man still clung to Derek’s arm, grounding himself.

“Thank you, Derek Hale,” he whispered, still sucking in copious amounts of air. “Hark is four today. Would’ve been a real drag to die on his birthday.”

Derek almost collapsed with relief, and he started laughing. Stiles joined him until they were on the floor, holding each other as they laughed and cried.

 

.....

 

“I guess this is it,” Derek said, looking at the other man. Stiles was in civilian clothes for the first time in almost 8 years, and they looked good on him in Derek’s opinion. 

After the incident, Derek called his superiors and reported Nurse Cross. When the FBI had arrived, they had found Nurse Cross ripped to shreds, seemingly by her own fingernails, and ruled it a suicide. Derek thought it was a bit of a stretch, but the recovered video footage showed that no one else was in the room but her. It had taken a few weeks, but they eventually blamed all of the deaths on her. Eichen was safe again, or at least as safe as an asylum for the criminally insane could be. 

“Is it now?” Stiles asked, smiling at the ground. With his testimony and help from both the FBI and the local police force, Stiles was finally free of all charges concerning the murder of Scott McCall, and Scott’s death was ruled as a suicide. It had taken a while to convince Stiles that he deserved to walk free, and Derek had finally gotten through to him with the help of a perky therapist named Erica and the promise of seeing his child grow up right beside him. Stiles was able to walk free from Eichen and his nine years of imprisonment. As they stood outside of the gates of Eichen, Derek waiting for Stiles’s family to pick him up from the asylum, Derek realized he might miss the man.

Derek rubbed the back of his neck. “About Nurse Cross’s death...was it actually…?”

“The ghosts of the people she’d ordered killed? Yes,” Stiles said simply, turning to look at the road in front of them. “They finally got to deliver justice as they saw fit.”

“You know, when you were touching me, I saw them. And the day before, when we kissed, I thought I saw….” Derek trailed off, his voice cracking. He swallowed. “But not since then.”

“They’re not gone, you know,” Stiles said, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

“I can’t feel them,” Derek responded.

“You can’t? You can’t feel your mother’s hand guiding you when you tie your shoes, or hear your sister’s voice in your ear when you order a pizza with your favorite toppings?” Stiles smiled lazily at him, and Derek felt that weird energy crackling in the air again. “You’ve never let them stray from your heart, Derek Hale. Because of that, they walk by your side in whatever you do.” Derek felt emotion welling up inside of him, and tried to hide from it, but Stiles wasn’t done. “You carry their hopes and dreams with you. Everything they ever wanted to be, to accomplish. You are their dreams, now. It’s not a burden, Derek Hale. It’s a gift from those that loved you as dearly as you loved them.”

Derek choked back most of the tears, and wiped the one that escaped. “I can’t believe all this shit is real,” he said instead of something else. 

“You mean, you can’t believe I’m actually _not_ crazy,” Stiles said easily, a smile playing at his lips. 

“Yeah, that too.” They stood in silence for a while. “You know,” Derek started, but was interrupted by the sound of a car motor.

“That’s my dad,” Stiles said, a real smile gracing his face. “Thanks for waiting with me.” Stiles hesitated as he clutched his suitcase handle, unsure. “You know, this doesn’t have to be it.”

Derek’s heart stopped in his chest for a millisecond. “It should be. I’m due back in DC within the week.”

“Now, is that really what you want, Derek Hale?” Derek could hear the teasing undertone in Stiles’s voice, the one that he heard in his dreams all the time these days. 

He turned to look at Stiles, who had the ghost of a smirk on his face. Stiles was right: he could hear the voice of Laura in the back of his head, whispering at him. “No,” Derek said roughly, and Stiles dropped his suitcase with a loud thud and threw his arms around Derek’s neck, kissing him just like the first time.

“Stay?” Stiles asked.

Derek didn’t even need to be touching Stiles to see his own family egging him on, telling him how much he would regret this if he didn’t say his next words very carefully.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO SO SO much for your support!!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave some feedback and your thoughts! I'd love to hear each and every one of them :) Thanks for reading!! xx


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